


Crown of Winter

by raiyana



Series: Prince of Greenwood [9]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Solstice decorations, Winter, fashion - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-13 22:16:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11769492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: I made mention of Tranduil's Winter crown + outfit in the last chapter of Zahrar, and this is the story that came from it.





	Crown of Winter

It was winter time in Greenwood, the naked trees reaching spindly fingers towards the bleak sky and the pine needles shining dark green against the whiteness of the snow.  
Rhonith had arrived a few days earlier, intending to spend the next three seasons enjoying the company of her Atheg and young Legolas. Currently, that meant decorating the Royal quarters – while Legolas slept – with long rows of icicle-like crystals, boughs of pine and garlands of holly. The holly plants that grew in Greenwood had once been seedlings from Eregion, a gift for the Queen upon the birth of her first son from the elf she had called Uncle, the smith Celebrimbor. His own realm, Eregion, where his daughter Rhonith had been born many years ago, had been named for the abundant plant, but over time, the red berries and deep green leaves had become an integral part of the solstice celebrations in Greenwood.  
“Wine?” Thranduil asked, holding out a goblet for his adopted daughter as she fastened another garland of holly-and-pine, turning to smile at him from her small stepladder.  
“Thank you, Atheg,” she murmured, sipping the dark red fluid dreamily.  
“You know,” he said, smirking, “It is odd to see you stand taller than me for once.” When she laughed, he frowned playfully. “I’m not sure I like it.”  
Rhonith chuckled, raising her goblet in a toast. “Will you take over this task then, and I shall lounge on the sofa and drink wine while I make comments to disparage your skill?”  
“Far be it from me to disparage your skill, sellig,” Thranduil countered, raising his own goblet. They both laughed. Thranduil looked around the room, pleased. The greenery brought with it a fresh scent that made the parlour smell like him. He was getting better at not wincing when memories of Nínimeth rose up, but he wished she could see that they still decorated for Solstice in the way she had taught him.  
“She would like it, Atheg,” Rhonith said quietly, her voice certain. Taking his elbow in her hand, she steered him out of the room, making her way to the Throne room, towing the bemused Elvenking. On their way, they met several Elves also hard at work decorating the main areas and oft-used walkways for the upcoming feast. When the two reached the Throne, Rhonith nimbly climbed the steps, while Thranduil remained below, where supplicants usually stood; confused as to her purpose. Turning, Rhonith sat on the Throne, giving him her haughtiest stare. Thranduil was reminded of the time he had found her in here with Thalion, playing Queen and Jester. He laughed.  
“I remember when Thalion was in my place, O Queen of decorators,” he chuckled, mock-solemnly saluting Her Highness with his wine. Rhonith returned the nod with an impish smile, swallowing another sip.  
“Ahh, how shall you serve my decorating whim then, Atheg?” she mused, tapping the goblet thoughtfully. “Perhaps we should cover this throne in garlands and crystals, and then you could wear all white and pretend to be a candle?” Thranduil laughed at the silly image she conjured. He thought they were both approaching drunk, giddy like Elves much younger and with far fewer cares in the world.  
“Somehow, I do not think a flaming crown would be a good idea,” he mused, as he watched the gears in her Dwarven mind actually consider ways to make it appear as though his crown was aflame.  
“No,” Rhonith sighed, tapping her fingers along the armrest. “You would be wroth with me if it burned your hair.” With a wink, she suddenly sat up, her face bright with ideas and her cheeks glowing slightly from the wine. “We could make you a Solstice-Crown!” she cried, jumping to her feet. She barely touched the steps as she ran down, leaving Thranduil to shake his head in fond exasperation before following her back through the winding hallways until they reached the rooms occupied by the Royal Family – including Rhonith when she was present. Thranduil had sealed off the rooms no longer in use; the ones belonging to his eldest sons and the bedroom he had long shared with his wife. He found his daughter hard at work, having found some dark branches somewhere as well as a supply of silver wire which had probably been in her own pack, he guessed. Between her skilful hands, something was taking shape. The crown – for it was a crown, Thranduil could tell, staring over her shoulder and sipping his wine, pouring another measure into Rhonith’s goblet. She reached out, taking a sip and replacing the goblet without looking up from her work. The dark branches – not unlike the ones he could see on his beloved maples outside the window, in fact – were quickly joined by a supply of the glass spikes she had made to look like icicles. Thranduil did not understand how it worked, but he knew that asking would only get him a technical explanation that he would hardly understand, so he simply admired the long glass spikes for their beauty. A few of them were as long as his forearm, though Rhonith had also brought smaller ‘icicles’ along. As he watched, a crown of the same type as the ones he usually wore, woven from the plants in his realm, took shape, the glass crystals looking like icicles hanging off naked branches after a night of ice rain. It was starkly beautiful; different, but at the same time he wondered why he had never had the idea before. Of course, making such a crown with real icicles would have been a mess, but the glittering masterpiece his daughter was weaving… he would need properly austere robes to go along with it, Thranduil thought, sipping his wine. Perhaps black. It would definitely need some silver, and something that would catch the light…  
“Are there black gems?” he heard himself ask, almost surprised.  
“Black agate, jet, various other kinds,” Rhonith listed absentmindedly, staring at her work and taking a sip of wine as she considered it. “Why?”  
“Because that crown needs a different robe than my usual Solstice robe,” Thranduil said.  
“There’s no time to make a dark robe to match…” Rhonith replied thoughtfully. “I thought it would look nice with white fur? Perhaps some silk brocade, I’m sure I brought you some from Dol Amroth once. If you haven’t used it, it should be in the storeroom, silver on white. You would resemble a King of snow.”  
Thranduil nodded; as she spoke, he could see the item in his mind. “Perhaps a tunic for Legolas could be made from the same material,” he mused, “certainly a gown for yourself, as well.” Rhonith laughed.  
“We shall see.” Toasting him with the goblet, she drained the last of her wine, gesturing him to sit on the sofa and picking up the crown. Thranduil nearly held his breath as she lowered the spiky creation to rest on his head, but it was not uncomfortable. Rhonith considered him thoughtfully. “It would be a shame to wear it with black,” she mused. “Perhaps, someday, I will make you a crown with ebony branches, and bring you beads of jet and black silk for the clothes to go with it,” she decided. 

At the Solstice Feast, Thranduil did glitter like fresh snow, though he though his own beauty outshined by the lovely vision of Winter his daughter presented. The outfit that had been made for young Legolas was every bit as fine as the one he wore himself. Legolas had sat still during the official dinner and the minstrels’ performance, but after that he had been allowed to follow Rhonith back to his rooms and change into a more wearable garment, a tunic and leggings in dark pine green that he could run and play in, the material more durable and less ‘scratchy’ – as the elfling had complained – than his white outfit.  
The crown, however, became a recurring tradition between Thranduil and his daughter-by-heart. Every year, a new spiky creation would arrive, even the years when Rhonith herself did not. For many years, she insisted that it was not yet time to weave the black branches into the crown, but as the darkness began to spread under the trees, the Winter-Crown got more threatening, the spikes sharper, the branches pointier, and when the crown of black wood and shimmering diamond-glass arrived, it was the most beautiful representation of wintery darkness to Thranduil’s mind. The robes that went with it were stitched by a dwarven lady he had met a few years previous, embroidered with silver thread in geometric patterns and decorated with dark beads of a stone that seemed to suck in the light the hit it, making the gown look blacker than black.  
Thranduil was pleased.


End file.
